


And These External Manners of Lament

by Novocaine



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: But I could use a real one, F/M, Frodo is the love child of Thorin and Bella, Genderbending, Grief/Mourning, Miscarriage, Self Beta'd
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-28
Updated: 2014-02-05
Packaged: 2017-12-06 19:15:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/739166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Novocaine/pseuds/Novocaine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She had never considered the prospect of motherhood—not until Thorin.  She had been content with the idea of spending the rest of her life at Bag End, with nothing but the company of her books and her gardens to fill her days with subtle joy.  It had been a good plan, a safe one, until thirteen dwarrows and one stubborn wizard burst into her little part of the world.  She had not loved Thorin then, no.  She hadn't even loved him later on, but at some point she realized she did love him and that he loved her in turn and somehow that was better than the safety of her books or the peace of her gardens; so much richer than the warmth of her home and greater than the sum of her predictable days spent in the Shire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is all due to the wonderful [Slashluvr](http://slashluvr.tumblr.com/) and [Baconnegg](http://baconnegg.tumblr.com/) as this entire story was their idea and I only asked for permission to write it and--hopefully--do their plot bunny justice.

 

_"My grief lies all within,_

_And these external manners of lament_

_Are merely shadows to the unseen grief_

_That swells with silence in the tortured soul."_

_– William Shakespeare_

_*_

 

“You hobbits are fertile little things, hm?” Dis’ voice is light and teasing as she presses a gentle touch to the soft curve of the halfling’s belly that can’t be blamed on seven fine meals a day. 

Bella blushes.  It has not yet been a full season since she and Thorin wed, earning her the title Queen under the Mountain.  It is a role she is still not yet used to.  As a simple hobbit of modest means, wielding such influence is more unsettling than anything; but Dis is a patient teacher and a good friend and under the guidance of Erebor’s princess, Bella learns quickly what is expected of her.  It has not been overlong since she braided Thorin’s bead—the one he placed into her palm the night of their wedding, the one that would signify her willingness to bear him children—into her hair, and in all honesty, she hadn’t expected to be with child so…suddenly.  As it stood, without the monthly draughts that regulated her bleeding days, she was much more fecund than she thought.  Then again, it was perfectly normal for some hobbits to birth many children over the course of their lives and while she would certainly not be attempting to outdo one renowned hobbit lass’ record of twelve, she was happy that it hadn’t taken them very long.  In fairness, she could not take all of the credit.  No, not with Thorin’s unearthly stamina and overall…virility.  Just thinking on it causes her to blush fiercely, and she looks away in the hopes of hiding it from Dis.  But the King’s sister has keen eyes and a good-natured heart and does not miss the blush nor its probable implications.  Instead of using it as fodder for another few light-hearted jabs, she throws an arm around her sister-in-law.

“My heart is glad for the news,” she confesses gently.

Bella looks up and smiles.  “Truly?”

She nods.  “Long has it been since a child has run the palace halls.  Long has it been since I held a babe in my arms and sung to it the stories of our people.”  She looks down at the hobbit’s rounding abdomen.  “A great gift you carry within you, little majesty; one that will lift the spirits of Erebor’s people.  And a great day it will be when the line of Durin welcomes its newest addition.”

Bella knows it is not all true—not everyone is pleased with the news; the same ones who were not pleased that their king decided to marry a hobbit of no noble standing are the same ones who rue the prospect of a child formed of their union.  She has heard the whispers, witnessed the sharp stares and lips curled high in disgust.  She is well aware that not all of Erebor is as elated as the House of Durin, but knowing that she has Dis on her side will make it easier to trudge through the upheaval she is sure the announcement will cause.

She had never considered the prospect of motherhood—not until Thorin.  She had been content with the idea of spending the rest of her life at Bag End, with nothing but the company of her books and her gardens to fill her days with subtle joy.  It had been a good plan, a safe one, until thirteen dwarves and one stubborn wizard burst into her little part of the world.  She had not loved Thorin then, no.  She hadn’t even loved him later on, but at some point she realized she _did_ love him and that he loved her in turn and somehow that was better than the safety of her books or the peace of her gardens; so much richer than the warmth of her home and greater than the sum of her predictable days spent in the Shire.  She had not thought of motherhood until he placed the bead in her palm the night of their vows and promised; “There is no rush.  When you are ready—should you ever be ready.  Only then.”  But she had seen the glimmer in his eyes, the hope buried deep in his heart and though he had not pressured her at all, how could she refuse?  She knew full well how rare children were among the dwarrows—so much so they were revered as tiny miracles, for dwarrows did not marry often and bred even less.  Dwarrow women who chose to forsake their crafts and answer the call of motherhood were few and far between.

She knew Thorin’s desire to be a father, to birth a namesake all his own, and how could she refuse him such a gift?  He, who had given her love, a kingdom, a title, a new home in a strange land.  He, who had prized her above all else, as if she, a simple hobbit lass with no noble bearing was somehow something more than that.  How could she say no?  She could not. She had no craft seen as honorable among the dwarven folk; she could not bend gold or silver into intricate patterns, she could not forge weapons for the hands of warriors, nor did she herself have the hands of a warrior.  But she could give him this—this tiny, infinite miracle, this, the very manifestation of their love; a living testament to the vows they shared atop a windy mountain.  This, she could give him. And when she understood that, only then did she understand her own maternal desires.

Bella touches her stomach.  The swelling is slight, so faint it could be explained away by a trick of light or the drape of fabric.  But she knows; she can feel the tiny life pulse beneath her fingers and shudders at the thrill it gives her.  This is a piece of Thorin within her, it is his seed that has taken root within her womb.  It is a frightening and delicious truth and she would be lying if she said she didn’t feel some sort of pride at the idea of birthing a prince or princess of Durin’s line.

She smiles at the thought and echoes Dis’ sentiment.  “A great day, indeed.”

 

*

 

That night, dinner is a celebration.

The mead flows faster than the River Running and the mood is loud and jovial.  Thorin’s announcement is met mostly with jubilation and congratulations abound. 

Kili smiles so widely and the excitement radiating from him is nearly tangible; beside him, Fili is a bit more subdued but no less joyful because of it.

Ori, Nori, Dori and Bofur grin like mad and when Bella looks her way, Dis offers her a discrete wink.  The rest of Thorin’s company share in his joy—Bifur makes quick, careful gestures with his hands (Bofur informs her that he is giving her and the unborn child his blessings) while Balin and Dwalin pat their king on the back good naturedly, congratulating him on his good fortune.  Bombur does the same, taking a brief moment from gorging himself to give his blessings to both.  As expected, the eldest members of the King’s Privy Council take the news with faces that seem to suggest they have been force fed poison. Arras and Agùthol look far from pleased, as expected, but they give Bella stiff, plastered on smiles nonetheless.   The siblings Sûkhâl, Juzrâl and Gatholâl are far less willing to cooperate and don’t even attempt to feign delight.  They outright narrow their eyes at her before busying themselves to avoid looking at her; Sûkhâl stabs a spear of broccoli rather violently, and Juzrâl goes for his goblet while Gatholâl stares down at her plate in silence. 

There are others that glower into their cups and shoot her cleverly concealed sneers.  Perhaps at one time it might have bothered her; hurt her, angered her even.  Now, with Thorin sitting proudly beside her, she finds that she is not at all concerned with their anger.  She is to birth a King or a King-maker of Durin’s line.  If her marriage to Thorin was not enough to remove all uncertainty and cement her position within Erebor’s hierarchy, then surely this is proof enough.  Proof that Thorin did not marry out of her misplaced duty, or debt; not simply because she helped slay a dragon or helped him reclaim his lost kingdom.  Theirs is a marriage steeped in love, and if any doubted them before, let them look upon the belly that will swell with life and doubt no more.

Bella plays an ace card of her own and smiles very sweetly at Arras and Agùthol.  She will not hand over her happiness this time, not like the day she and Thorin were wed and she trembled under their terrible gazes and sharp, brittle smiles.  They are jealous, she thinks.  Jealous that Thorin’s virility has been proven, jealous that he will be given a gift most of them have been denied.  Songs are made up in her honor on the spot— _‘O Queen under the Mountain, The Shire’s best and greatest boon; of clever mind, of purest heart, of bravest deed and fecund womb.’_   She smiles and laughs, and sometimes sings along.  The dinner hall is a riot of laughter and song.

Sometime before dinner ends, Thorin smiles widely, grabs his goblet and stands to his feet.  “A toast!” he demands, laughing richly; “to the life that will be!”

The tables erupt into a cacophony of cheers and toasts and yet more well wishes.  Kili and Fili, of course, offer rather suggestive well wishes until Dis whacks them both over the head with a strength only the Kings sister could muster.  That doesn’t stop Bofur and Bombur from picking up where the two brothers left off and Bella finds herself blushing madly when Gloin loudly proclaims which positions blessed his wife with their son.  Partly to hide the brilliant scarlet of her cheeks and partly because Thorin demands yet another toast, Bella reaches for her own water filled goblet and drinks deeply.

_For the life that will be._

 

*

 

Thorin gifts her the Arkenstone that night.

She refuses at first—the betrayal may not sting as badly for Thorin any longer, but she thinks of his rage and cannot look upon the stone without remembering it.  Though he had forgiven her long before Bard returned it in a show of good will to the new King, she had not quite forgotten the rift it caused between them.  The stone meant more to him than anything to be found in the rich caverns of Erebor; but when she reminds him of such, he only laughs, and slips the necklace over her head. 

The liquescent nature of the mithril chain molds to the shape of her throat, dipping softly into the hollows of her collarbone.  The Arkenstone, nestled in a fine gold setting, shines bright and brilliant between her pale breasts.  In quiet wonder, he reaches out, trailing a finger from the hollow of her throat to the where the stone settles against her bosom.  “This was the prize of my fathers’ house,” he says, and reaching now with both hands, he presses his palms to her belly.  “This will be the prize of _our_ house.  Will you accept my gift as I accept yours?”

Bella blinks back tears and nods.  He kisses her near breathless, swallowing every tiny gasp that slips unbidden from her lips as he undoes the laces of her dress.  Thorin’s warm kisses find their way to her belly, his hands finding purchase along her hips.  The Arkenstone is a cool, sure weight against her heart.  There will be talk on the morrow; some will find her new adornment the gesture of a loving king, others will curse the way Thrain’s prized gem hangs on the neck of a foreign commoner and they will curse the house of Durin.

Bella doesn’t care, at least not in this moment.  When Thorin finally breeches her with an almost reverent wonder, she decides that nothing will ever be as perfect as this single moment.

 

*

 

Something is wrong.

She knows it the moment she wakes that morning.  Everything feels different, not around her, or beyond, but within her.  As if something has changed, or shifted or is suddenly missing when it was there all along.  She can’t explain it and so dismisses it as nerves.  She is four moons into her gravidity and surely it is mere over prudence on her part; Dis even warned her that she might be hyper aware of little, necessary changes that might occur, for she was a new mother and inexperienced in all the transformations her body would undergo in expectation of labor.  Thorin is already gone when she wakes, but that is nothing unusual; he is King, and as such, his duties begin much earlier.

Bella pushes it to the back of her mind and goes on with her day.  She performs her daily ablutions, enjoys a light breakfast followed by a morning constitutional and then makes her way to the throne room to hold court with Thorin, ignoring the faint discomfort even walking causes.  He smiles when he sees her and she does not miss the way his eyes flicker to her abdomen.  Taking her seat beside him in the Queen’s cathedra, she spends the next few hours listening to complaints brought before them by the people, answering when Thorin’s asks her opinion and remaining silent when he does not.  With the stroke of each hour, she notices a heavy weariness that she has never known before settle in her bones.  She feels lightheaded, dizzy, and can feel the beginnings of a cold sweat prickling along the edges of her temple.  The pain in her stomach is worse now too.  She tells herself that it is hunger, and when the bell finally tolls to signal the start of lunch, she is grateful.  Before she can stand, Thorin reaches out to grab one of her hands.  “You are not well,” he says, brows knit together in worry.

She offers him a weak smile.  “It is merely fatigue, and hunger, perhaps.” she assures, though she hardly believes the words even as she speaks them.  There is a sudden sharp and twisting pain in the right side of her abdomen and she grunts, squeezing Thorin’s hands as she winces.  Suddenly she is frightened and all at once realizes that this isn’t normal at all.  Another wave of pain, this one fiercer than the last, makes her double over, nails digging into the King’s hand.  For some reason, she thinks standing may help ease the pain, so she does, and immediately regrets it.

It makes the pain worse and a warm, wet flood eases from her nether regions and careens down her legs.  For a moment, she thinks she’s urinated on herself, but a nearby guardsman gasps and one of the handmaidens closest to Bella screams.  Bella looks down and oh—

There is blood on her dress, staining the white silk of her garments.  It slips down her legs and forms a little macabre puddle between them.  Thorin, who might have been in some state of shock, manages to stand and catch her when her knees finally buckle.  She gives into her instinct and slips her hand beneath her dress and petticoats.  When she brings it to her face, it is bright and slick with blood.  The sight of it makes her scream, though she does not realize at first that the high, panicked cries are her own.

She can make out Thorin’s voice—he is shouting orders, demanding healers, threating the welfare of others if they do not stand back and give them space.  Suddenly there is yet more pain, a deep, aching pain that starts in the center of her stomach and rattles her to the core.

“The baby,” she cries, reaching for Thorin’s hand.  He holds her red palm in his own.  “Thorin—the baby, Eru, no, no.”  Another wave of pain makes her clench her teeth together sharply to suppress a cry.

“Hush,” he says, with all the gentleness he can gather through his fear.  “Hush, the baby will be fine, and so will you.”

She looks into his eyes and sees doubt and fear in the clear grey irises.  She knows.  Their child has abandoned her body in this vivid, horrific display and it cannot be undone.  She has witnessed similar fates back in the Shire—women whose wombs refused the life that grew within them and forced the barely formed remnants out violently.

Her belly feels empty, hollow in a way she can’t explain and her eye lids are heavy from the loss of blood.  Back in the Shire, sometimes, the women lived.  And sometimes, they did not.  Dwarrow medicine is more rudimentary in practice than her homeland, but the herbs and roots are much more potent.  But she knows that it is too late for their child and the grief of that knowledge is what finally pulls her under, amid Thorin’s frantic cries and the careful touch of hands that belong to those who do not want her to die. 

 

*

 

It is late in the night when she wakes, tucked into warm blankets with a cool cloth along her temple.  The first face she sees is Balin, who looms over her, pressing wrinkled fingers to her cheek and the pulse point along her neck.  “She wakes,” he says, as if to alert others.  There is a muffled clatter of movement—shifting, chairs scraping along the stone floor, footsteps, soft sighs of relief—and then she is surrounded by the Royal Family; a solemn faced Kili and Fili, who keeps his eyes downcast.  There is Dis, her beautiful sloe eyes red-rimmed and watery and then, of course, there is Thorin, broken in ways Bella has never witnessed and feels sick knowing that her own weakness is the cause of it.  And though she knows, so part of her—the part of her that still lives on hope—demands confirmation.  “The baby,” she says, her voice little more than a horse rasp.  “The baby, is it—“

“Bella.” Dis speaks, her voice a trembling caricature of her usual assertive tone.  “Oh, Bella.  I am sorry; there was nothing anyone could do.  _I am so, so sorry, little one_.”

Her eyes sting with tears before they even begin to fall.  She cannot bring herself to look at them, to face them after this tragedy, this failure.  She turns away and buries her face into the soft down her pillow where she weeps silently.  She can feels hands on her, stroking back her hair, grasping her hands, gripping her shoulder tight.

“For the life that was.”  Thorin’s voice is a low, shattered rumble in the crushing silence of the room.  His hand is a warm, heavy weight over her empty womb.  Soon, there are other hands along her belly and the voices of her family reciting the same farewell. 

Bella weeps until her head aches, until her chest is raw with the force off her sobs, until there are no more tears left her to match the weight of her grief. 

 _For the life that was_.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Dis becomes more or less a permanent fixture in the healing chamber; Bella often wakes from fevered dreams to find Erebor’s princess looming over her, pressing a cool cloth to her forehead and singing the healing Psalms of Aule in the rough, accented language of her people. It is usually enough to pull her from the dark weight of her tortured dreams and she is always grateful for Dis’ presence._
> 
>  
> 
> _“Will it always be like this?” She asks one night, shivering with a cold sweat. “Will I always have these nightmares?” Her sleep is poisoned loudly with the cries of a faceless child she cannot reach._
> 
>  
> 
> _“It is common,” Dis says, her lovely face saddened. “It will not be always so, little majesty. Your soul is unsettled and will heal in time.”_

The healing process is long and arduous.

The healers fuss over her as she has yet to regain her color; she is deathly pale, lips chalk-white, with dark circles around tired eyes.  Thorin visits often, whenever he can snatch a moment away from his duties.  Bella is not angry, nor bothered about sometimes waking up without his solid presence.  She knows full well that as king, Thorin’s people will always have to come before his own personal affairs—be it the birth of a child, or the death of one.

Despite his occasional absence, Bella is never alone in the healing chamber.  Balin visits often, as do the others of Thorin’s company.  Kili and Fili sit with her when they are not burdened with the tasks set upon them by the king or his council.  She is surprised to learn that gifts are being left outside the palace gates—charms, amulets, jewels and various other offerings that are made to ensure the child’s spirit knew that it was loved in this world and to ensure it safe passage into the next.  The knowledge of this does little to ease her grief, but it brings a touch of comfort to know that there are others who mourn, that the raw weight of grief stretches further than the palace walls. 

Dis becomes more or less a permanent fixture in the healing chamber; Bella often wakes from fevered dreams to find Erebor’s princess looming over her, pressing a cool cloth to her forehead and singing the healing Psalms of Aule in the rough, accented language of her people.  It is usually enough to pull her from the dark weight of her tortured dreams and she is always grateful for Dis’ presence. 

“Will it always be like this?” She asks one night, shivering with a cold sweat.  “Will I always have these nightmares?”  Her sleep is poisoned loudly with the cries of a faceless child she cannot reach. 

“It is common,” Dis says, her lovely face saddened.  “It will not be always so, little majesty.  Your soul is unsettled and will heal in time.”

Had Bella any doubt left that Elvish blood did indeed entwine at some point in the line of Durin, the appearance of Dis would have been enough proof.  She was fair in the way few—if any other—female dwarf was; more like in beauty to the maidens of Dale with the elegance of the Elves than to her own rougher brethren.  She was small, even by dwarrow standards, but still taller than Bella herself.  Her sideburns were dark and wispy, stopping only when they reached her chin.  She had the dark, thick hair that seemed canon among the children of Thráin II, with a few carefully placed braids that surrounded a soft, rounded face made exotic by slanted, pale blue eyes and chiseled cheekbones.  Her figure was delicate, though something about her gait and fierce gaze gave away the fact that she would be no easy opponent on the battle field and yet she had the hands of a healer.

The first few days after the loss are the hardest.

Bella shifts between unconsciousness and a hazy sort of wakefulness.  The healers force her to drink herbal tonics that force her womb to contract and she bleeds for days, curled in on herself in an attempt to lessen the intense spasms throughout her abdomen.  It is awful, but she knows it must be done, least anything remains within her and sickness settles in. 

The days seem to blend together, like the foggy edges of a dream one attempts to hold onto shortly after waking.  One morning, she wakes to the sound of music; soft and slow and sweet.  When she gathers enough strength to open her eyes, Thorin is beside her, plucking peaceful notes along his golden harp.  She cannot help but feel that the song is a eulogy for what might have been.  For the life that might have been.  She says nothing of it and lets the notes lull her back into a dreamless, feverish sleep.

It is nearly a full week before she can sit up on her own and two days after that until she can hold down solid foods and eat something other than diluted tea and warm honey bread.  She regains her strength slowly and is glad for it—she has never been one for ill health and hates the oppression that comes with being in the sick ward; the healers dictating everything from what she eats to how much, how she is to take her tea (no milk, no sugar, more water, less herbs) and what position she is to sleep in to facilitate proper healing of the womb. 

On the twelfth morning of her convalescence, her prayers are answered and Thorin comes to tell her that the healers have given her clearance to be released.

“Your fever has not returned in three days and I have been informed that you’ve been able to hold down food and drink with relative ease.”  He smiles, and for all its gentleness, it is still wounded.  She doesn’t need to ask why.  “I would have you take your morning meal in the hall with our family and your things moved back to our chambers.”

“Yes,” she answers, leaning into the touch that pushes wayward curls from her face.  She misses the warmth and familiar comfort of their bed chamber, the books, and the fireplace.  Most of all she misses the weight of Thorin pressed against her as she drifts into slumber.  She has grown accustomed to sleeping with the heat of another beside her and even Dis believed her nightmares would lose their bitterness when she returned to their suite.  Bella has her doubts, but she is hopeful nonetheless.

Thorin leans forward and presses a kiss to her temple, which for once, is not clammy with the sweat of fever.  “Your ladies will be sent in to assist you,” he says, and she knows what he means—she is Erebor’s queen and it will not do to attend her first meal outside of the sick ward appearing ill and unkempt.  He could care less so long as she is well, but in the realm of Royalty, there is a level of Political intrigue in all that she does, no matter how mundane.  Her hair, which has gone curly and limp during her sickness will need to be flattened and twisted into braids before being pinned into intricate patterns.  The dark circles of her eyes will be hidden with paste and her cheeks will appear dewy and bright once she has applied a thin layer of rouge to hide their paleness.  It is a great deal of mess she never bothered with back home, but what has now become a necessity during her time under the mountain.

He does not pull away immediately.  They stay together for long, silent moments, foreheads pressed together, hands clasped tight and the weight of a thousand unsaid words hang heavy in the air.

 

*

Time moves on.

She goes back to consuming the draughts that regulate her bleeding cycle.  She heals; both physically and emotionally, the first more so than the latter.  There are times she will see a fauntling or two running about the streets and cannot stop from wondering what it would be like if one of them belonged to her.  There are good days; she pushes the memory of her loss to the back of her mind and laughs and works and loves.  And there are bad day, days when she envies those who have a gravesite to visit because the only proof that she ever brought a life into this world is the bloodstained dress she keeps hidden at the bottom of her wardrobe.

The bad days become less and less frequent, but they never really go away.  She doesn’t really expect them to.

Thorin still grieves, in his own way.  He is a King and is hardly allowed the emotional struggles she has found time for, but there are times when they are together, speaking and laughing and loving, and his gaze will flicker to her abdomen and his smile will slip a little and his eyes will darken and she knows he is reminding himself that no child of Durin grows within her.

She will smile as if she hasn’t noticed and they will say nothing at all.

She does not remove the bead from her hair.

Her first trip outside the palace is fraught with nervous stares and hushed whispers from her subjects.  Some share in her grief and others give her covert smirks, and she knows they are pleased that there will be no heir from her to contest Fili’s right to the throne.

But time moves on and so do they.

Before she knows it, five moon cycles have come and gone.  What little warmth that can be found on the mountain is beginning to fade, replaced by the cool, crisp winds of an early autumn.  The light, gauzy dresses of spring-summer are replaced with the heavy wools and furs that will guard against the autumn winds and the approaching winter frosts.  Even she has taken to wearing the boots common among her subjects.  Hobbit feet—though tough and able to whether all seasons—were made for the soft, grassy plains of the Shire and not the rocky terrain of her mountain home.  

Despite the grey skies and cold winds, the kingdom vibrates with an undercurrent of excitement.  The change of the seasons mark the coming of the Treasures of the Land Fest—a harvest fest by dwarrow standards, marked by loud, jovial celebrations that begin at the setting of one sun and end with the rising of the next.  There will be food and drink aplenty, nobles and commoners alike will come dressed in their richest garments and drape themselves in gold and jewels.  As a child of the Shire, Bella is no stranger to such galas and enjoys them as much as the natives.

Of course, the coming festivities require much preparation and as queen, much of the planning falls on her shoulders.  There are trade arrangement to negotiate—they will need extra barrels of mead from Dale and wine from Lake Town, an influx of meats from neighboring cities and grains and fruits from the elves.  She remembers the appointment book she used to keep in her hobbit hole back in the Shire, how she filled it with mundane things such as “remember to weed garden,” and “stop at the market for fish.” 

What was once a luxury has now become a necessity; she plans out every hour of her day, juggling between holding court with Thorin, weekly visits to tithe Mahal’s temple and hand out alms to the old and sickly, meeting with the fisherman and farmers of Dale, transcribing contracts and letters from Elvish to the common tongue so that Dis can translate them into Kuzhdul for the benefit of Thorin’s council.  It is a grueling schedule she sets for herself, but she manages even on the days she think she might not be able to.  She even skips meals (a travesty in the Shire) to keep certain appointments, though Dis always stocks her dinner plate high to ensure she makes up for it.  Thorin notices her fatigue, but makes no comment on it until one night after dinner, following a particularly hectic schedule, she nearly faints. 

“It’s alright,” she assures everyone when they have finally calmed down enough to listen to her.  She bats at the hands of healers, summoned no doubt by Kili’s frantic shouts, and refuses to let them look her over.  “I’m just a bit tired, nothing more.”

The healers inspect her anyway at Thorin’s request and issue an immediate diagnosis of overexertion followed by a sound order of bed rest.

Bella huffs in indignation.  “Absolutely not! The fête is just weeks away and I have no time to just—“

“Bella.”  Thorin’s voice is a deep, rumbling sound, echoing off the stone walls of the dining hall. 

“I have a meeting with the merchants of Dale tomorrow morning, I can’t possibly—“

“We will find another to go in your stead.”  His voice makes it very clear that he expects her to concede without argument.

But Bella has always been a headstrong hobbit and no title will ever change that.  “Kili and Fili were going to accompany me and I see no reason—“

“I will go instead,” Dis offers, pressing the back of her hand against Bella’s cheek as if checking for fever.  “I daresay you can trust my sons and I with the task.”

She frowns.  While it is easy to trade barbs and disagree with Thorin’s stance, there has always been something about Dis that makes the idea of putting up a fight…objectionable.  With a sigh, she surrenders, albeit reluctantly.  “Alright…alright then.  Dis and the princes will go.  And I will…rest,” she says, the last word rolling off her tongue in a venomous hiss.

“Perfect,” Dis announces, turning away in a flourish of silk and velvet.  “The boys and I will prepare, and you will go and get so much needed rest.”  She makes a gesture, prompting Kili and Fili to follow behind her. 

Bella can only sigh and—reluctantly—obey.

*

 

Bella’s anger lessens considerably when she returns to their bed chambers at Thorin’s prompting and finds a hot bath waiting for her.  The water smells of gardenias and myrrh and is tinted a relaxing shade of blue.  Once undressed, she steps down into the water and breaths out a content sigh.  Almost immediately, her muscles lose their tension and she goes boneless in the soothing waters.  She slips into a gentle, floating state of half-awareness; sleep and yet not, and because of it, she does not notice she is no longer alone until she hears the gentle splash of water and feels herself pulled forward.  She gasps and her eyes snap open.  She finds herself face to face with Thorin, his arms tight around her, her body pressed to his equally bare one.

“Did I frighten you?” He asks, quite aware of the answer.

She scoffs, and looks away, refusing to give into his gentle teasing.  “Not quite.”

His grip shifts from a possessive hold to a gentle embrace.  Bella does not push him away, but she makes no effort to reciprocate his affection.  “I have angered you,” he mumbles into her hair.

“I’m not angry,” Bella explains, “disheartened, but not angry.”

“I am only worried.  Will you fault me for it?”  His face takes on an expression that is both innocent and pleading at once.  It is an expression that is terribly unbefitting a king and would be more suitable for a displeased child.

It forces a laugh from Bella, who thinks it a poor replica of the faces Fili and Kili use to get back into Dis’ good graces after she’s threatened them with punishment for one slight or another.  Her laughter very quickly turns into a shocked yelp as Thorin lifts her into the air by her hips.  She keeps her hands along his shoulders to steady herself, but she knows she will not fall.  “Thorin Oakenshield!” She shouts, doing her best demanding Sackville-Baggins’ voice.  “You put me down _right_ this minute!”

Thorin hums thoughtfully.  “And if I refuse?” He questions, mouth curled into a lively smirk.

“I will be _most_ unhappy.”

“Then tell me, O Queen under the Mountain—how am I to find my way back into your good graces?”

His booming, teasingly dramatic tone makes her laugh and when he lowers down, she grips his face for a moment to press a kiss to his temple before sinking back down into the water.  “I forgive you,” she says finally.  “But you already know that, don’t you?”  It is difficult, very difficult, for her to stay angered at him for very long.  Strange, for when they first met, they found themselves in a perpetual state of distaste and irritation towards one another.

They bathe one another and talk quietly about a variety of things; the political standing of the kingdom, the work in the mines, steps that must be taken to ensure there will be enough supplies to last through winter, ideas on strengthening relations with the Elves--and this is usually the point where Bella does most of the talking and Thorin grunts moodily in acknowledgement.

At some point, they make their way out of the cooling water and onto the bed, a tangle of limbs and hair; her legs wrapped around his waist, his hands tight along her hips.  Thorin is, as ever, a gentle lover and she muses briefly on the juxtaposition—when she looks upon him, it is easy to see how people may have mistaken dwarrows from being born of stone.  He is all hard lines and solid muscle with a latticework of scars, testaments to his battle prowess, and thick, dark hair along his chest and abdomen.  Beside him she is frail and soft; round of hip, ample breasts and a tummy that always protrudes slightly.  But he is careful with her, mindful of his strength and her frailty.  

“We will try again.”

His voice is a hushed murmur against her cheek and at first, she is far too lost in the sheer force of her pleasure to understand his words.   It is only when he pulls away enough to rest a hand along her abdomen and increase the speed of his thrust does realization finally dawn on her.  And the knowledge of it makes her shudder, makes her arch up and grind against his hips in quick, eager circles, stretching her wider still.  She feels the way his muscles twitch and jump, a precursor to his impending release, and when he makes no move to extract himself before he reaches his peak, she presses a hand to the one along her stomach and forces her eyes open to gaze at him.

“Yes,” she says, and clenches her muscles around him, watches the way it makes his thrust falter and his breath come out in low pants.  “Oh, _yes_.”

*

 

The Treasures of the Land Fest begins and the entire mountain is alive with the energy of the dwarrows celebrations.  Bella enjoys herself as much as the natives; with drink and food and dancing—the dwarven kind, movements made for their stunted, hulking forms.  The royal family wears the traditional color of Durin’s bloodline; a deep, saturated sapphire blue. 

Dis and Bella wear a similar shade, though the queen’s dress is cut much differently.  It was meant to be a surprise of sorts for Thorin that Bella requested a dress with a low back, one that exposed the long line of her spine, from the nape of her neck to her tailbone.  It was a fashion that would have been considered scandalous back home, amongst her humble kin. 

There were whispers here too, some of the elder members of Thorin’s council giving her strange looks, a group of older women curling their lips at her in distaste when she entered.  But it is worth it for the looks Thorin gives her, for the way he finds reasons to press a large hand to the curve of her back and how midway through the evening he leans his lips close to her ear and says in a voice low with secrecy and husky from drink, “Do you mean to tempt me?”

Bella plays the part of naïve maiden and gives him a curious look, her mouth bright red from the kisses they shared when they could steal a moment without someone looking their way.  “Whatever do you mean, my king?”

He smiles and before he can say anything else, they are interrupted.

“My lord, my lady.”

Bella looks to her right to see two young dwarves bowing low before she and Thorin.  She recognizes the man—though she cannot, for the life of her, remember his name--as one of the guards in Erebor’s army and the son of a general.  The woman who stands beside him is young and sweet faced with thick, gold-red sideburns decorated with glass beads. 

“Erzukhur”, Thorin greets merrily, the two of them clasping one another by the forearm.  “And you must be the lovely lady Faham.”

The woman smiles a bit and turns a red in the face.  “Your compliments are much too high my king and welcome, though none stand as lovely as our queen on this night.”  She looks up at Bella from her beneath her lashes with a graceful shade of nervous hope that her words are well received.

Bella is no stranger to flattery and while she is not one to fish for compliments, she certainly isn’t one to deny them.  “Thank you, though I’ve no doubt that you are often on the receiving end of such golden words.”  It is true, Bella knows; one of Faham’s beads is a rarity, a particular design given to only the most beautiful of dwarrow maidens.  But it is well earned, she thinks, for Faham is just as lovely outside as she is within and answers her questions with an almost childlike excitement, especially when she begins to describe her birth village, a small settlement toward the eastern edge of the mountain.

“And the sunsets,” Faham says, “were the most beautiful I’d ever seen.  I left when I was a girl, but I have every intention of returning.  It is still as peaceful and lovely as I remember, and it is my most sincere hope that my own daughter might—“

Erzukhur stiffens beside Thorin, who had gone quiet just before Faham.

Bella seeks to fill the heavy silence.  “You have children?” She asks and hopes her tone sounds amiable.

Her gaze flickers to Erzukhur, and she clears her throat softly.  “No—not, not yet, my queen.”

“Ah.  So you are pregnant, yes?”  Bella takes a sip of her wine, not trusting the shape of her smile.

Thorin becomes visibly uncomfortable and Erzukhur’s gaze flickers between them with a wide-eyed look that gives the impression of one having gravely miscalculated a situation.

“I was hoping to share the news with you at a more private hour.”  The young guard’s voice is low and she cannot be sure that it is not fear that makes his words waver.  “So that I might ask you both to bless Faham with an easy labor and…our child with good health.”

Thorin’s face is a blank mask and Bella has loved him long enough to know that is as ill an omen as any.  She speaks without giving him a chance, thinking only of damage control and not the growing pit sitting heavy in her stomach.   She swallows around the lump in her throat and smiles at Faham. “Of course.  It would be my honor—it would be our honor—to give our blessings to you and your child.”

Faham is pleased, greatly so, but still modest (and perhaps fearful) enough to attempt a delicate rebuttal.  “My queen, it is of no consequence, it was…it was a thoughtless request and—“

Bella reaches out, presses her palm flat against Faham’s belly.  Through the fabric of her dress, the bulge is nearly imperceptible, but she can feel it beneath her hand.  “In Mahal’s name, the highest and most blessed—“

Thorin calls her name, but she does not stop.  Her voice rises, pitch steady.  She does not let her hand tremble.  There are those who have noticed a change in the atmosphere, a shift in the mood and as Bella voice somehow finds a height above the music, above the celebrations and the hall falls quiet.

She has never done this before, never been asked, but she finds that the words come easy, almost unbidden.  “—He who loves this world and his children best of all, I bid you safe passage into motherhood.  May what comes to you as flower one day ripe into fruit, and in your final years, may they return as shade.  For the life that will be.”

She does not pull her hand away immediately, nor does she turn to look at Thorin.  But after a time, when the silence has stretched as far as the edges of the mountain, he reaches forward, places his hand over her own that is still settled atop Faham’s belly.  The words that fall from his lips are wooden and not even the fires deep within the forges could make them warm.  “For the life that will be.”

She washes down her bitterness with another sip of wine. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta’d, though I could use one. So if you’re willing to take up the painful job of weeding out a million miles of typos, I’d love to hear from you.
> 
> I’ve had this done for some time, but I’ve been editing and re-editing and arranging and re-arranging. I’m still not happy with it, but I hope it was worth the incredibly, unforgivably long wait. I do plan on finishing this, even if it takes a decade. 
> 
> “May what comes to you as flower one day ripe into fruit, and in your final years, may they return as shade,” originally written by Lynn L. Caruso.


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